


your mind, it makes me wanna

by im2old4thisotp



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, I'm Not Ashamed, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Stydia, This is just sex with a small reason for 8k of it, lets be real here, married stydia, though i probably should be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-24
Updated: 2017-09-24
Packaged: 2019-01-05 00:52:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12179688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/im2old4thisotp/pseuds/im2old4thisotp
Summary: Lydia is nervous about her looming lecture circuit.Stiles decides he is going to help her practice.





	your mind, it makes me wanna

**Author's Note:**

  * For [writergirl8](https://archiveofourown.org/users/writergirl8/gifts).



> Okay, this is completely shameless.
> 
> I mean, I'm kind of embarrassing myself with this one. But also, we need the happiness after that nonsense that was 6b.
> 
> This is also for @writergirl8, who asked for smut for her birthday, and I deliver, albeit several days later than her actual birthday because this was supposed to be 2k and it ended up 8k and I should probably apologize but I just won't at this point.
> 
> Lydia's speech is the research from the first female Fields Medal winner, Miryam Mirzakhani, who was working on...you guessed it? The Riemann Hypothesis, before she tragically passed away a few months ago. In my head canon, Lydia is on her research team. :)

It had been a really, really long day.

The manhunt that the bureau had been on for about 6 months was gaining momentum, and all it meant for Stiles was long hours, lunch at his desk, and piles of paperwork he never thought he’d get through. Add to that the fact that his brain wouldn’t shut off the case after he left the office, and you have the formula for exhaustion. Today had been especially hard since they found some evidence of a possible media leak in the office. Everyone was on edge and suspicious and it made his already jittery nerves even more jittery.

To make matters worse, Lydia was preparing for a huge lecture circuit, so her schedule wasn’t matching up with his. The two of them had felt like passing ships in the night for weeks now. He tried to make sure to let her know every day that he was thinking about her—via a text or a quick voicemail—but he hated how apart they had been. Her presence always calmed him. One of these nights, they were going to take a break from everything and just _be_ together: Thai food, _The Bachelor_ , curled up on the couch, and lots of making out.

When he gets home, the lights are on. She made it home before him for once. He puts down his bag and kicks off his shoes before going to search for her. He is loosening his tie as he rounds the corner to the living room where he finds her pacing and muttering to herself. He steps back a step or two so he can’t be seen in the doorway and he watches her for a moment from the shadows.

He loves seeing her fully involved in her work. Her brow slightly furrowed, her hair falling in tendrils around her face where it has fallen out of the bun after a long day in classes. Her short, floral skirt flouncing around her legs as she murmurs and sways through the room. His mouth dries a little at the sight of it—he wishes he could sit in on Dr. Martin-Stilinski’s lectures with that skirt. He tries not to think of the graduate students having the same thoughts. Her feet are bare, the high heels tossed somewhere out of sight.

She never practices her speech where he can see—she says his staring and drooling makes her lose her concentration—so he wants to get a sound byte. He has a vague idea of the topic, but he still wants to hear it from her lips. Her hands are fumbling together, as much as they can with notecards in one hand and a pen in the other, and she drums them together occasionally. He smiles as he notices her lift the pen to her lips, chewing on the end for a moment—she would never admit that she’s picked up some of his habits, but he sees it. It makes him smile. She pauses in her mumbling to scribble something down on a card before continuing her worn path on the rug. Back and forth, back and forth she paces. As she turns back to him the sound carries just enough for him to make out the words.

“ _Riemann surfaces are named after the 19th century mathematician Bernhard Riemann, who was the first to understand…_ ”

She finishes her path his direction, and when she turns away he can’t hear the words. He turns and heads into the kitchen and puts a kettle of water on to boil. He hears her murmuring rise and fall as she works through her speech. As the water boils he gets out two tea bags and grabs their favorite mugs from the cabinet—hers with the skyline of Paris, his with “Talk Wookie to Me” emblazoned on it—filling them with hot water from the kettle. He dunks in the tea bags and walks carefully back to the family room.

He steps into the room as she has just faced away again, and he tries to get closer to hear her words. He puts the mugs down gently on the sideboard, then follows the path that she has pressed into the rug with her footprints, silently following her with his socked feet.

“ _...as opposed to surfaces arising concretely in some ambient space._ ”

“So it’s the Riemann Hypothesis again,” he says softly behind her. Even though he keeps his voice low, Lydia jumps at the sound of it.

“Jesus!” She wheels around, the look of surprise painted on her face. She playfully smacks his chest with the cards, and looks at him accusatorily when they spill onto the floor.

“Stiles! You scared the shit out of me!”

He chuckles, “I’ve been home for 20 minutes, you didn’t hear me?”

She puts one hand on her hip and gestures to the floor with the other. “And you made me drop my note cards!” She bends down to pick up the smattering of cards across the floor.

“Lydia, you’ve had your lecture memorized for weeks. You’ve never used cards before, you have everything in your head.” He bends down as well, helping to grab the cards that have fluttered under the coffee table.

As he picks up one of the cards, he notices that it’s blank on both sides. He picks up more cards, and with each one notices: they’re all blank. A few of the cards have illegible scribbles on them, but there aren’t any notes that he can see.

Lydia flushes as he holds up one of the cards to her, an eyebrow raised. Her voice is low as she answers. “I’m so nervous about this. I figured having something in my hands would help calm me down.”

His mind flashes to his morning routine, where he does his best thinking when his hands are occupied with shaving. He smiles to himself. _More habits from me_. “It’s not a bad idea,” he admits to her. They finish collecting the cards and he hands his stack to her. He grasps her hand to help her up, and leads her to the couch.

“Why are you so nervous? You know you’re going to kill this lecture series, right?” he asks gently, grabbing the Paris mug and handing it to Lydia after she tucks her feet underneath her. He grabs his own mug and follows her, punching one of the throw pillows to get it to fit under his hip just right. The pillows were ridiculous, but he has to admit—never to her, of course—they mold really well.

She takes a deep breath, releasing it slowly as she blows on the hot liquid.  “I just...this is my first big circuit. We’ve done all this research, and now it’s time to present it to people that matter—people that give funding—and...I just don’t want to screw it up for Miryam. She worked so hard on this and...I feel I owe it to her memory to do it justice.”

Stiles puts the cup down on the coffee table and reaches for her legs, pulling her feet out gently from underneath her. Her feet are covered with tights, which makes his fingers slide smoothly over the soles of her feet. His fingers work the massage deeply, and she moans lowly and rests her head sideways against the back of the couch, her eyes closed.

“You couldn’t possibly let her down, Lydia. You’re just as invested in this research as she was. She wouldn’t have passed it on to someone she didn’t trust.” His fingers press into the soles of her feet, trailing up and down from her toes to her heels, his thumbs rubbing in circles on the top. He shifts his hands so they wind around her ankles, his palms pressing firmly into her Achilles’, causing her breath to exhale slowly.

He continues, “You’re incredible. You’re going to get the funding you need to continue her research. You’re going to impress all the old misers in math departments around the country. They aren’t going to be able to resist you.”  Her eyes remain closed as his palms and fingers work in tandem in slow circles up her calves.

“You have to say that. You’re my _husband_.” Lydia’s eyes slowly open, and they latch onto Stiles’ own, and he is caught off-guard by the uncertainty he sees in them. He’s so sure of her—how can she be so unsure of herself?

“Okay, look,” Stiles says, moving his hands back to her feet and sitting up straight. “I will be a completely impartial audience right now.” Lydia’s eyebrows raise. “You say your speech to me, and I will let you know how it sounds. Anytime I need to present something to my boss, Ochoa makes me recite it to her first. It helps me work out the kinks.”

“But Stiles, you won’t understand it.”

“Hey, I know the basics: zeta functions, non-trivial zeroes, right?” Lydia smiles at him. He brings his hand up to her face. “Help me to understand it. If you can get _me_ to understand, you’ll have no trouble with the math department.”

Lydia straightens herself up on the couch. As she does, her skirt inches up a little bit higher, revealing that she isn’t wearing tights, but stockings that end high up on her thigh in a thick band of lace. Stiles’ eyes lock on the lace and his eyes widen fractionally. Lydia must notice, though, because she addresses him next.

“Are you going to be...distracted, Stiles?”

He clears his throat and shakes his head slightly, ripping his eyes from her thighs and back up to her face where he finds her smirking at him.

“Of course not. I’m a grown adult. I’m ready to help you, and to be an objective listener.”

He means it. He really does. He crosses his legs on the couch and puts his hands in his lap and listens. The problem is that he _listens_ to her. He hears the lecture that she starts to deliver so eloquently, and he just...can’t help it. She speaks with such passion and it draws him in completely. He can’t help but get wrapped up in the words. They’re like a spell on him, rolling over him and wrapping him up so that he can’t concentrate on anything but how incredibly smart she is. He has no idea what she’s saying—but it’s not his job to make sure she’s _right_ . It’s his job to make her feel _safe._ His focus goes straight to her mouth and he watches her so perfectly form the words with her lips and her tongue.

_“Provided that one disregards the precise geometric shape, there is exactly one surface of genus g for every positive integer g.”_

Her lips purse and stretch with the vowels and consonants, her tongue moving quickly to enunciate each syllable clearly, and he’s mesmerized. He lets the words wash over him.

_“A surface becomes a Riemann surface when it is endowed…”_

He finds himself wanting to trail his fingers along her bottom lip as she says the words he’s spell-bound by. He has no idea what she’s saying, but it fills him with incredible pride to hear her say it. His mind swims as the words fill the space around them, her voice conveying her commitment and dedication to the subject.

_“...which is two-dimensional over the real numbers, has only one complex dimension and is sometimes called a complex curve.”_

This is his _wife_ . Somehow this incredible woman, who is changing the mathematics world, who is using her mind for good, is in his home— _their_ home—her feet tucked into the Ikea couch they purchased together. He’s astounded by her.

 _God, how did he get so lucky?_ His heart starts beating a little faster as her speech continues,  each phrase making his heart pick up speed like a train starting down the tracks.

_“...curve in a standard ambient space...suitably chosen polynomials...a Riemann surface is a priori an analytic…”_

He’s supposed to be listening. He’s supposed to be evaluating. But the more she talks, the less he hears. Because the words are like lightning rods of heat straight to his dick. He’s trying not to let his focus drift, but _damn it_ if she isn’t making it impossible. She’s just...so fucking smart. And he’s so fucking proud of her. He wants to convey to her the depth of his pride with his words, telling her how smart she is, the way he used to. But she hears that from everyone now. Lydia’s mind is no longer hidden—its reputation follows her as closely as the letters that follow her name. So he has learned to speak to her differently now. To be quieter. To worship her with his tongue and his fingers, painting his love on her body with caresses and soft moans and warm breaths against her skin.

His fingers twitch in his lap, and he hopes she doesn’t notice how uncomfortably tight his work pants have become. A drawback to black pants, he decides, is that they have no structure. He couldn’t disguise his hard-on if he tried.

The problem is his wife is _Lydia Martin-Stilinski_ . And although she may get involved in her work to the detriment of everything else, she notices him. She’s in the middle of a sentence about _deforming closed curves_ (oh, fuck it all, seriously??), when she stops abruptly.

“Stiles, is there a problem?” Her eyes challenge him, as if daring him to say he wants her to stop her speech—after he was the one to demand she practice it with him.

“A problem? Pssh—no. Why would there be a problem?” He avoids her eyes.

“Well, you are supposed to be listening to my speech, and it seems like you may have an issue with your own... _single hyperbolic structure_.”

Stiles groans at her. “Oh, come on, Lydia! That’s just unfair.” Lydia cocks an eyebrow at him, then looks down at his lap, where he is trying—and failing—to cover up the evidence. Finally, Stiles throws his hands up in surrender. “Okay, fine. Yes, I am turned on by your speech. But don’t let that distract you.” Stiles’ eyes light up as he is hit by inspiration. “In fact, I think it’s better.”

Lydia scoffs. “Better? How?”

Stiles sits up on his knees, leaning toward her slightly.

“I mean, if you can get through this speech perfectly, even with...distractions...then you should have no trouble when you deliver the speech without any distractions, right?”

Lydia looks at him skeptically. “I don’t think that’s how it works.”

Stiles leans over her further and his voice drops. “Lets just try it.” He looks into her eyes and wiggles his eyebrows up and down at her. He can tell that she tries to keep her smile under wraps, but her dimple gives her away. He smiles winningly. “Excellent. Why don’t you start where you left off, at _the number of closed geodesics_?”

She raises her eyebrows in surprise. “Aah, so you _were_ listening.”

“I’m always listening.” Stiles gently pulls at her legs, sitting back and bringing her feet into his lap again. She wiggles her toes against the bulge, and she giggles as he lifts her feet. “Ah-ah. None of that. You are practicing your speech, and I will...listen.”

He starts working magic on her feet again, sliding his hands up and down her calves, the pads of his fingers pressing against her muscles and sliding smoothly along her stockings.

She looks at him for a long moment before taking a deep breath and continuing with her speech.

 _“The number of closed geodesics grows exponentially with L; specifically, it is asymptotic to e L/L for large L. This theorem is called the “prime number theorem for geodesics.._.mmmm...”

Her words fade into a stifled moan as Stiles’ fingers have worked all the way up her legs and are trailing slowly around the lace on her thigh-highs. His fingertips work slowly under the lace, his blunt fingernails tracing the patterns of the flowers in the lace. He hears her breath hitch as he follows the lace to where her thighs are pressed together. He untucks his fingertips and flattens his palms on the top of her thighs, trailing them out from under her skirt and laying them gently on her knees.

He gazes at her expectantly, and a moment later she opens her eyes and says, “What?” with a frustrated tone.

“You stopped talking.” He smirked at her. “When you stop talking, I stop... _listening_.”

Lydia looks perturbed for just a moment, then her gaze steels and with an _Alright, you’re on, Stilinski_ look in her eyes, she continues.

_“It is exactly analogous to the usual ‘prime number theorem’ for whole numbers, which estimates the number of primes less than a given size.”_

Stiles lets the words drift over him again, his gaze settling on Lydia’s mouth as she forms the words carefully and with purpose. She wiggles her eyebrows at him, and he can’t help but smile at her cheekiness.

He slides closer to her on the couch, tucking his feet under himself. He pulls on her ankles gently so she slides down on the couch, her skirt sliding up on her hips, revealing her garter and lace. He spreads her legs, one to either side of his hips. She is completely open to him, and he can’t help darting out his tongue to wet his lips.

Lydia’s breath hitches, but she continues, staring at his mouth as she speaks the words, “ _In that case the number of primes less than e L is asymptotic to e L/L for large L_.” On the L, Lydia’s tongue lingers between her teeth longer than necessary, and she slides it along her top lip.

Stiles leans over Lydia, staring at her lips with wild hunger pounding in his brain. He wants to taste her mouth so desperately, but he won’t. Instead, he stares at her until she begins to recite again.

“ _When one considers only the closed geodesics…_ ” With her words, Stiles drops his head to her neck, sucking slowly and deliberately on the skin just under her ear. His hands slowly work open the buttons on her blouse as his mouth works up and down the muscles in her neck. She turns her head to give him easier access as she continues, “... _that are simple, meaning that they do not intersect themselves..._ ” He bites gently at the base of her neck, feeling the pulse point beneath his lips. He feels along her exposed collarbone with his teeth, alternating between gentle nips and sucks, her breathing increasing as he focuses his attention on the soft skin on her neck again. He anchors his left arm on the couch next to her body and drifts up to gather her earlobe in his mouth, gently pulling on it with his teeth and sucking on it. “ _The behavior is..._ ah... _very different...in this case..._ ohh _.”_

Stiles voice rumbles low in her ear, “Keep going, Lydia.” He sucks on the sensitive skin just under her earlobe, and takes a deep breath. He can smell the lavender from her shampoo, and he moves his right hand to press against the other side of her neck. He threads his fingers through her hair as he sucks on the sensitive spot under her ear that he knows she loves.

“Mmmm…. _The growth of the number of geodesics of length…”_ She suddenly pushes against his chest and gives him a hard look. “Stiles, do _not_ give me a hickey before this lecture.” He pouts at her, but then concedes. He supposes that the dark bruise he had started to leave on her neck might give the wrong impression at the lecture. He shrugs at her before lowering his head to her neck again. When she doesn’t continue right away, he clears his throat.

He hears her sigh in his ear before she continues, gripping his shirt collar in her hands. She speaks in a more whispered tone than she had before. “ _The constant c depends on the...hyperbolic structure._ ”

He smiles into her neck. _That saucy vixen._ He kisses a trail down her chest, creating a line down her sternum until he reaches her lacy bra with...mmm, yes, a front closure. He opens the last two buttons on her blouse and pushes open her shirt, revealing her smooth, creamy skin to him. Her breasts swell in the lace cups, moving up and down with deep breaths that she is trying to keep even. Stiles drinks in the sight appreciatively, his eyes roaming around, deciding where to focus his attention next. Fingertips skim gently over her skin, trailing up her ribcage. Her soft skin under his rough pads is one of his favorite things, the contrasts between them heightened in this intimate space. She jerks away from him suddenly, and he realizes that he skimmed a ticklish spot. He smiles into the valley between her breasts, laying gentle kisses against her skin. His upturned nose drags along the top of her right breast, and his teeth bite down on the top of the cup and drags it down. He slides his nose across to her other breast, biting down the cup there, too, and his hands finish tucking them underneath, trussing her up beautifully. His knuckles trail slowly along the underside of her breasts as he sits back on his heels, taking in the sight appreciatively. Purposely avoiding her taut nipples, she arches into his knuckles, willing him without words to touch her where she wants.

Lydia’s eyes are drooping, her voice barely a whisper. “ _The complex structures on a surface of genus g form a continuous, or non-discrete, space, since they have continuous deformations._ ”

Stiles is uncomfortably hard. Staring at his wife beneath him, seeing her arousal come to life is the best kind of drug he can imagine. He wants to take as much time as he can with this, to lift her up to places they haven’t been able to explore in weeks. He aches for her to tell him, without words, exactly where to touch, the pressure to exert. Her back arches into his touch, and his fingers circle her, teasing but not taking. For a moment, he forgets the challenge, but as she arches into his hands again, he realizes that she is quiet.

His hands lift from her chest, and takes his index fingers into his mouth, sucking gently on the tips. Lydia slowly opens her eyes and watches him, the heat radiating from her gaze as she stares at his tongue flicking across the tips of his fingers. He releases them and rubs them together with his thumbs.

“Lydia?”

“Hmm?”

He moves his hands so they are hovering directly above her nipples. “You were saying?”

_“While the underlying topological surface remains the same…”_

His hands drop to her skin, and his wet thumb begins to rub circles against the hardened nubs of her nipples. She arches into his touch, and her words become breathy as his wet fingers pull and tweak the sensitive skin.

 _“...its geometric shape changes during..._ oh, God. _”_

Lydia’s speech is broken when he begins blowing on her nipples, the air mixing with the wetness. Goosebumps burst up on the skin on her breasts, and Stiles teases her with his tongue and his teeth, kissing circles over the bumps while his fingers gently torture her nipples, squeezing them and pulling them upwards.

“When does the shape change, Lydia?” His breath ghosts over her skin as his lips hover over her left nipple. He stills as she arches into him, not moving until she begins to speak.

“ _Moduli space has a very intricate geometry of its own_...” Her words fade in the background as he latches on and focuses his attention on her sensitive nipple. He doesn’t hear what she is saying any longer, he just hears her breaths pulling laboriously in and out, her words becoming strained as he lavishes his tongue over and around the sensitive flesh. She grabs the back of his head, her fingers weaving through his hair as she holds him in place. He feels her nails dig in, and the pleasure-pain he feels as she holds onto him for dear life is addicting. Finally, he slides his right hand behind her ribcage and pulls her into him, his lips latching on and suckling her nipple. He rubs his tongue over it again and again and her speech interlaces with moans that he can feel through the vibrations on his palm.

Stiles lifts his head, a trail of saliva connecting his lips to her nipple, and his hand slides around to her front again, his thumb rubbing into the saliva across the bud as his head moves to her right side.

“You’re doing so well.” His voice ghosts over the wetness on her other nipple, and Lydia tightens her grip on the back of his head as he moves over her again. “What comes next?”

“ _Different ways of looking at Riemann surfaces lead to different insights into its geometry and structure._ ”

Lydia’s voice is barely a raspy whisper, the rough texture of it sending more heat down to his groin. It pools between his legs, his length throbbing and angry, but he refuses to give in to the need to rub against her, to gain friction. Stiles moans into her right breast this time, working it with his tongue and his teeth, and when he bites down gently on her nipple, her voice turns high and needy as she throws her head back.

“ _...an algebraic object called an algebraic variety!_ ”

Stiles pulls up with a _pop_ off of her nipple and rests his chin on her, his right hand still mercilessly working her left side. He smirks at her, “The math department is going to love your enthusiasm.”

She lifts her head to him, fire evident in her eyes. She pulls on his hair and slides him forward so he is splayed on top of her, his dick rubbing against her heat through their layers, and they both groan at the contact. She moves her hips to rub against him more, hooking her ankles behind his ass and pressing him harder into her.

“ _We established a link between the volume calculations..._ ” Lydia drags his head down to her mouth and tugs at his ear with her teeth, sucking the lobe into her mouth. She holds onto it and whispers, “ _...on moduli space…_ ” She releases his lobe and breathes heavily into his ear, thrusting her hips up into his hardness, and smiling as a deep groan escapes his lips. Her nails rake through the hair on the back of his head, holding it close to her mouth. “ _...and the counting problem…_ ” Her open mouth slides along his jawline, whispering throatily, “ _...for simple closed geodesics on a single surface._ ” One of her hands moves around to his face, a thumb tracing along his bottom lip. Her eyes don’t leave his mouth as his tongue darts out and circles the tip of her thumb, then his lips close on it and suckle. Her eyes lock with his, and he can see she’s losing control. Her hips are pushing up into him, and the friction that she’s creating is the sweetest torture he can imagine.

It would be easy to let her take her pleasure from him this way, using his hardness to bring herself to climax, but he doesn’t want to risk coming before she does, so he lifts his hips away from her, and slowly slides back so he’s sitting on his heels again.

Lydia’s head drops back against the armrest, a deep, frustrated groan escaping her lips. “God, you’re unbelievable.”

He takes a couple of deep breaths, steadying himself, before he places his hand on the side of her neck, sliding it slowly, carefully, down the length of her body. The pads of his fingertips are rough against her smooth skin, and he notices how her body arches and moves up against his hand as he slides it downward, over her breasts, down her taut stomach, across the fabric of her skirt and down to the lace around her thighs again. Her legs are open, and he locks eyes with her again as his fingers slide back up to the lace panties she is wearing. His fingertips trace the outside, the dampness evident through the thin, barely-there fabric, and her gasp reminds him of the original plan. His fingers trail to the waistband of her panties and tuck into them, pulling down slightly.

“I’m so ready for the climax,” he says throatily. Lydia gives him a pointed look. “The climax of the _speech_ , Lydia. Get your mind out of the gutter,” he teases. His fingers pull on the waistband of her panties again, but instead of pulling them downward, he lets go and the band snaps back onto her skin. She jumps slightly, her mouth opening in surprise.

They stare at each other for a moment, and Lydia sits up abruptly. “ _We calculated certain volumes in moduli space._ ” As she speaks, she slides her open blouse down her arms, then brings her hands to her front and unclasps the bra that has held her trussed up and lets it fall down her arms, as well. “ _And then we deduced the counting result for simple closed geodesics from this calculation._ ” She tosses the bra and the blouse at his face, and grabs the pillow that he has been using under his hip out from under him. He chuckles as he pulls the blouse and bra off of his face and drops them to the floor. Lydia fluffs the pillow behind her back and slowly eases onto it, and she winks at him as she slides her hands around the back of her skirt. He’s confused for a moment about her intent, but then she’s dragging her skirt out from underneath her, and tossing it onto his face, as well.

“You are well-prepared for this, Ms. Martin-Stilinski.” The muffled voice drifts out from under the fabric, and he hears her giggle as he drops the skirt to the floor. He quickly removes his shirt, unbuttons his pants and pulls them off with his boxer-briefs, dropping them into the pile before bending down to lay kisses in a line down her stomach.

“ _One consequence was a new and unexpected proof of a conjecture of Edward Witten._ ”

“Oh, don’t go bringing him into this,” Stiles jokes against her belly button. He kisses it softly, his hands running up and down her sides, gently squeezing and kneading, loving the contradiction of her smooth skin and the puckering from her scars on her side. Over time, she’s learned not to be self-conscious of them, even going so far as to wear them as badges of pride. He’s never been able to hold himself back from lavishing the scars with loving attention. The softness and the roughness mixed together are such a perfect representation of the strength that she carries with her, literally carved into her body. His tongue drops into her belly button, kissing circles around it and smiling as her muscles clench beneath his mouth—another ticklish spot.

“ _Based on physical intuition and calculations that were not entirely rigorous, Witten made a conjecture…_ ”

The palms of his hands ghost over the skin on her hips, and he hums appreciatively at the sight of her garter belt and thigh highs below him. The tone of her voice changes slightly, and he looks up to see the cause: she’s smiling as she talks, the words unable to pass as smoothly as before because she’s barely keeping her laughter contained. Lydia shakes her hips from side to side, wiggling beneath him as much as she’s able with her legs still bracketed around his.

“ _...through a direct verification of how many special loci can_ —Stiles!”

Stiles had moved his hands down to her shaking hips and squeezed at the jut of her hip bone, making her jump in surprise and the laughter burst from her lips.

“—That’s not fair! No tickling!” Lydia throws her head back against the armrest as he squeezes a second time, laughter bursting from her again, and her hands grip his wrists to try to still his torment. His heart swoops at the sound of her laughter, throaty and full. He can’t help but lift his head to watch, his eyes following the long line of her neck that is fully exposed to him, down to her breasts that are jiggling with her laughter.

 _Mmm...yes_ , he sighs appreciatively, and he leans down again to nuzzle against the valley between them, loving the feel of them on either side of his face as his tongue strokes the smooth skin against her breastbone. His lips feel her heartbeat, and he latches on to where the beat feels the strongest, sucking and laving his tongue in a circle directly above it. Lydia’s hands release his wrists and grip the back of his head, and his arms slide up again to cup the sides of her breasts appreciatively, rubbing his thumbs against the hard nubs again.

Lydia’s laughter merges into whimpers of pleasure, and her words come out more whispered than before. “ _His deep conjecture about moduli space now linked…”_

His lips pull off her skin with a sloppy _pop_ , and he’s pleased to see the deep purple mark starting to appear, right on her heart. _Math nerds won’t see it there_ , he thinks with a smile.

“... _to elementary counting problems of geodesics on individual surfaces._ ”

He has to hand it to her. She’s really sticking with the speech. He never would have lasted this long if the roles were reversed, a fact she would most certainly point out to him. But then again, he’s never been shy of letting her know the effect she has on him. He rains kisses on her skin, moving south at a leisurely pace, something that is starting to drive her crazy, if the impatient tugs on his shoulders and his hair is any indication. He decides to move it along for her sake—he’s not sure how much speech there is left, but he’s certainly ready for the finish line—and she’s earned it.

His fingers unclip the garter belt from the stockings, and she lifts her hips to give him access to the hook in the back, but he surprises her and pulls on the waistband of her panties instead, pulling them out from under the belt and sliding them down her legs.

“ _The moduli space._ ..oh _Jesus_ that’s so...” He’s pulled the panties off and Lydia gasps as he holds them to his face, taking a deep breath in.

“Is the moduli space as good as this, Lydia?” Stiles exhales with a moan and looks down at her hungrily. The belt, the stockings, and her openness are an erotic sight below him, especially when her hands start to move seductively from her neck down her breasts and across her stomach. He’s not even sure she’s aware that she’s doing it, desire driving her actions.

“ _Moduli space has a metric whose geodesics are natural to study._ ”

At this point, Stiles doesn’t care if she finishes her damn speech. Her words themselves are driving him to climax like he’s fifteen years old again. He makes an effort to zone out her words so he can focus on her. He drops her panties in the pile and slides back slightly on the couch, being careful to sit up on his knees so he doesn’t grind against it. If he gets any friction whatsoever on his dick right now, he’ll blow his load all over the cushions and Lydia will be _pissed_. This has turned into a challenge for them both, one Stiles is definitely ready to take on.

“ _We proved yet another analogue of the ‘prime number theorem for closed geodesics’..._ ”

Stiles moves his hands under her knees and lifts them to his shoulders, giving him perfect access, and taking all the control. He wraps his left arm around her leg and rests his hand on her lower stomach, while his right hand slides from the inside of her knee down to the heat he is dying to explore. The glint of the light against the wetness that has been pooling there makes him shudder, and a whispered _yessss_ escapes them both as his fingers trail through it.

Lydia’s voice is high and needy, her speech broken with gasps and moans as Stiles works his fingers into her, leaving kisses on her thighs, tracing the freckles that dot her skin with his tongue, rubbing his upturned nose into her curls and inhaling deeply. This is Lydia at her purest, and he’s obsessed. His finger slides inside her, the way smooth and slick, and his nose nudges against her clit in the gentle, concentric circles he knows she loves.

Lydia’s hands grab at his hair and his ears, holding him still and urging him on before her hands move under her knees, spreading them apart further and inviting him to explore more. “ _We counted closed geodesics in moduli space…_ ” His tongue moves alongside his finger, and he moans into her addictive taste, “ _rather than on a single surface._ ” Stiles feels her hips underneath him, attempting to move, attempting to take from him, but the angle of her legs on his shoulders and the pressure of his hand on her pelvis won’t allow her much. He gasps for air as he moves his tongue from where it has been spearing in and out of her to her clit, continuing the steady circular pattern.

Lydia continues her speech, “ _the system known as the “earthquake flow’ is chaotic”_ , but it’s beyond needy now, distant in his ears, and again he marvels at her commitment. His focus on her is just as committed. He slides in another finger, in awe of the silkiness of her walls under his fingertips, the tightness of her heat. He strokes in and out in smooth motions, determined to feel every inch of every surface, matching his motions with his tongue, even as the space around his fingers begins to throb and squeeze him tighter.

Stiles knows she’s on the edge of her orgasm, Lydia’s shallow panting and grip on the back of his head tightening. He presses down against her pelvis with his free hand as he crooks his fingers inside her, and as he feels her start to tumble over, he latches his lips around her clit and sucks hard, continuing the circles with his tongue. With a throaty whine, she clenches beautifully all over and he laps at her clit as her walls squeeze his fingers. Her hands fly to the armrest above her and her groans fill the room as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over her and around Stiles, who relishes her loss of control, her heat holding him in and milking his fingers over and over. He keeps his fingers inside her until she stops squeezing him, but still can’t bring himself to leave her, addicted to her heat. He lifts his head and rests against the inside of her thigh,

The only sound for moments is erratic breathing, Lydia’s chest heaving up and down and Stiles taking deep breaths that he exhales against her stomach. Eventually Lydia lifts her head to look at Stiles. He’s sure his face is a mess, but from the look that Lydia is giving him, she doesn’t care one bit. She’s opening her mouth and closing it, trying to say something, and Stiles manages a half-smile at her inability to talk. _Yep, he did that_.

Stiles hates it, but his legs are cramping painfully. He doesn’t want to move, but if he doesn’t, he’ll certainly fall over if he tries to stand. He pushes himself up with a groan, sliding back to sit on the couch. The cleanliness of the couch fills him with intense happiness—well, at least his _mind_ is happy, his dick certainly would say otherwise. As he sits back and stretches his legs, he groans both from the sudden flow of blood to his legs, and also from the weight between them. His dick isn’t throbbing anymore—the lack of attention made the hardness a little less, a bit more bearable—but it’s still really hard. He’ll take care of it in a few minutes, when he has feeling back in his toes. His hand wipes the wetness from his face—yep, he was a mess—and he can’t help taking a deep breath of her scent.

“Lydia, your...speech...is incredible.”

She snorts, and her hand flies to her mouth, capturing the laugh that erupts from her.  Her words are muffled under her fingers, “I’m so glad you approve.” Her hand drops to her lap and she smirks at him. “You seemed very focused. Did you catch the part about the algebraic objects defined in terms of polynomials?”

Stiles groans. He’s just listened to her talk for… He glances at the clock on their mantle— _Jesus, it’s been an hour? Time flies when you’re having fun._ Okay, he listened to maybe her entire speech and she still wrecks him with a few words. His dick throbs to attention and he sees her eyes move to it, staring at it hungrily.

He wilts under her gaze, the anticipation thrumming through him. “Of course. Those objects are....certainly defined.”

“They are, Stiles,” Lydia pushes back from the armrest, and slides forward on the couch, coming to rest on her knees between Stiles’ legs. His dick lying stiff against his stomach, precome dripping out of the slit, and she’s eyeing him with interest. “The objects have certain rigidity properties.”

“Huh,” his voice cracks. “Rigidity properties. Sounds…a little familiar.”

“I see that.” Lydia’s hand moves slowly down between her legs, and his eyes lock on her hand as she her fingers move against herself. “You know, _we learned that the rigidity has an echo in the inhomogeneous world of moduli space._ ”

“Oh, _god_ , you’re not done, are you.”

“No, Stiles. I’m not done.” Lydia’s fingers circle between her legs, and the little moans and gasps she emits make his mouth dry. Stiles sits up a bit to pull her toward him, but her free hand gestures at him to stop. Her eyes close and her head drops back as her hips grind into her fingers, and he sees her movements quicken slightly. She is bringing herself up again, and the sight of it is going to send him over the edge. His hand moves to the base of his dick, not stroking, just holding off his orgasm. Lydia sees it and moans.

“I’m not done, Stiles. But more importantly, _you’re_ not done.” With that, she removes her hand from between her legs. He sees the glistening on her fingers just before she wraps them around his dick, and the strangled moan he releases is manly, damnit. She pulls his hand away from himself, and she strokes him up down and around, coating him with her wetness. He’s thrusting his hips up into her hand, and nope, he isn’t going to last long. Sensing his loss of control, she climbs over him, lines him up with her entrance, and drops down on him slow, the wetness between them smoothing the way.

Lydia grinds down against him, her fingers returning to circle her clit again, and he feels the tingle behind his knees and at the base of his spine just before he feels her squeezing around him again. Stiles’ hands grab her hips and he thrusts up into her a few times before his orgasm erupts out of him, his body tensing everywhere as he’s fully sheathed inside her.  Moments later, she clenches around him again as she draws another orgasm from herself and it rolls through her body, squeezing him deliciously as they both come down from the high together.

Lydia collapses against his chest, resting her head on his shoulder, her face buried in the side of his neck. Their breathing slows together, their heartbeats returning to a more normal pace. He’s still inside her, albeit a lot looser than he was a few minutes ago, so he grabs his underwear from the floor and tucks it underneath them, just in case.

“I know we’ll never do this again if I stain the couch,” Stiles remarks.

He feels Lydia’s smile against his neck. “You’re so smart.”

He kisses her forehead. “Not as smart as you. How do you feel?”

Lydia hums appreciatively. “Warm.” He chuckles beneath her. “But also...better. Less nervous.”

“You’re going to do great. You didn’t use your notecards once!,” Stiles assures her with a grin, his hands running up and down her back.

Lydia raises her head, her upper body raising up so she can look him in the eyes. “Thanks for helping me practice. I hope I won’t have that many distractions next time.”

Stiles laughs. “You’d better not!” Lydia laughs along with him, and she lays a gentle kiss on his lips.

 

*****************

 

Lydia rubs her hands lightly on her pencil skirt. She’s not nervous about her speech anymore--thanks, husband--but there is trepidation about speaking in front of this group of people with this level of importance attached to it. The mathematics department head is droning on about her accomplishments, and she runs through her final ideas before she gets up to move to the podium. She doesn’t scan the room for Stiles. She asked him not to come, not convinced that she would be able to stay focused during her speech if he were in the room making googly eyes at her. He protested, of course, but ultimately agreed to stay at home because it’s what she wanted if she _promised_ to call him immediately after it was over to let him know how it went.

“Please welcome Dr. Lydia Martin-Stilinski to the stage.”

Loud applause brings Lydia into focus and she stands, adjusts her skirt, and walks confidently to the podium. She shakes the man’s hand and thanks him, taking her place behind the podium. The applause continues as she adjusts the microphone down, and she sees a notecard taped to the top of the podium with the words _Dr. Martin-Stilinski_ in scrawl on the top.

 _Stiles_. She’d know that chicken scratch writing anywhere. Her eyes immediately scan the crowd, for all appearances seeming to take in the applause and appreciation, but in reality, searching for her husband who must have been here. After a moment, she returns her gaze to the podium, satisfied that he isn’t there.

“Thank you so much,” she manages. She’s thankful that the applause continues because she’s fairly sure it disguises the small laugh she can’t hold back when she flips the card over.

On the back is a drawing--or, an _attempt_ of a drawing-- of a man and a woman in a...compromising position on a couch. Underneath the art, a note that says, _THANKS FOR HELPING ME WITH MY HYPERBOLIC STRUCTURE!_

Lydia can’t contain her smile, Stiles’ crude attempt at art breaking her nerves and instantly settling her. She’s not sure how he managed it, but she doesn’t care.

She’s going to kill this lecture thing.

“ _Riemann surfaces are named after the 19th century mathematician Bernhard Riemann, who was the first to understand the importance of abstract surfaces, as opposed to surfaces arising concretely in some ambient space._ ”

  


************

 

From the back of the lecture hall, a man slowly slides back up in his chair, the hat and sunglasses disguise _probably_ overkill, but it’s Lydia, she made him swear he wouldn’t come, and he can never be too careful. He smiles right along with her, and is pretty sure he’s the only one that catches the laugh she tries to swallow during the applause when she sees the art he had a devil of a time sneaking in without her noticing.

His heart swells ( _and yeah, probably his dick again, damn it_ ) as she lifts her head confidently and launches into her speech. Her voice never wavers, and her win feels like his own.

“That’s my girl,” he whispers reverently.

**Author's Note:**

> Umm...happy birthday, Rachel.
> 
> Thanks so much, Pantsie, for reading this over for me and pointing out things I missed. :)
> 
> Come find me on Twitter and Tumblr, and lets talk Teen Wolf because I am verklempt! @im2old4thisotp


End file.
